And Yet
by speakingintothevoid
Summary: "Her fingers moved smoothly and gently, rubbing and massaging, working the creams and powders along his jaw and under his eyes. The allotted ten minutes was nearly up, but nothing could have compelled him to tell her, to risk losing even a minute of the delicate brushing of her fingers on his skin." (Karen/Frank, before the diner scene from season 2)


It wasn't until he turned on the blinker that Frank realized how quiet the car had gotten. The soft ticking seemed to swell in the silence, filling the car like rings shifting out from a pebble falling in a still lake. He shifted his eyes carefully over to the petite blonde in the passenger seat, her face drawn in stone. Her breath had gone shallow, and her fingers pinched each other in her lap. Frank wasn't a fool. He knew that the only reason she had deliberately evaded police custody to run away with him was because she had stumbled upon the one being in the universe she feared more than him. Her slight frame was wracked with it, tension and paranoia slicing lines into her face, the stress of the last few days finally choking her. She had to be wondering if she'd made the right choice, fleeing for protection to this looming mountain of a mass murderer as the city cowered in basements from the fear of him.

He realized that his silence was making it worse, dehumanizing him again. Rather than break the silence in a way that would startle her, he sighed carefully, gradually increasing the noise, and then turned and smiled at her as she made fluttering eye contact.

"You hungry?" he asked, working to keep his voice quiet. "I could eat." He swung the car into the parking lot off a tiny diner, automatically driving into the darkest corner of the lot he could find.

"Am I – hungry?" Karen repeated, in a voice which refused to tremble. "That's not exactly at the top of my priorities list right now."

"We could use a break from the car," Frank insisted, taking the key out of the ignition. "And I'm going to need some coffee."

"We can't go in there," Karen protested, gesturing to the greasy diner. "People know who you look like now, the whole city's looking for you!"

"And what are they gonna do?" He asked. "If anybody gets suspicious, we leave. Best they can do is call the cops and we're well outside where they're swarming now. Trust me, no one here at this time of night is gonna go all vigilante. They probably haven't even paid attention."

Karen leveled a look at him. "You can't know that. How can this be worth the risk?"

Frank shrugged, and rummaged in the back seat. "Here!" He said, pulling out a battered baseball cap. "I'll wear a hat, and pull it down low. See?"

She shook her head, glancing down again. "You know that doesn't work. Even if they don't recognize you, you'll be memorable, okay? Your face looks like you lost a fight with a blender. And if you're memorable, so am I. I really don't need anyone knowing that I'm with you right now."

Frank sighed again, in actual impatience this time. "Well unless you have some magic plan for making me look decent, this is all we've got."

He reached to open his door, but was surprised to see her look up at him suddenly with a thoughtful expression.

"Wait," she said. "Close the door."

He obeyed, almost without thinking, as she reached up and took off his hat, staring eagerly into his face. He watched her, hardly breathing, as she carefully took his chin in her small fingers and turned his face carefully from one side to the other, looking searchingly at his skin.

"Right, okay," she continued after a moment, reaching for her purse. "I think I can fix this." She pulled out a small silken bag and spilled out several tiny bottles and cases onto her lap, picking out the concealers and foundations. Then her hand trembled again and she hesitated, looking up at him. "How do you feel about makeup?" She asked, with a challenging look.

"On myself?" He asked. He knew where she was going with this, of course, but it was not an offer that had been made to him very often. He was in a hurry to enter the diner and move on with his plan, but he saw the earnestness on her face and did realize the intelligence of making an effort to be less memorable. Karen had a way of asking for things that made her very difficult to refuse.

"How much can you do in ten minutes?" He asked, and felt compensated when her face lit up slightly at his acceptance.

"I guess we'll find out," she replied, almost cheerfully. "Let's see," she considered, rolling the makeup around in her lap with a frustrated finger. "This is just touch-up stuff, I don't have a lot here. But I'll make do," she added quickly, as though worried that if she expressed any more doubt he would change his mind.

She needn't have worried. He was beginning to process what was about to happen and was very far from backing out now.

Karen unbuckled, turning to face him, and reached up automatically to switch on the overhead lights for front and back seats. It was still very dim, but the diner was not well-lit either, and there was no time to arrange anything else. She twisted her hair over her shoulder distractedly and reached up to very gently brush the side of the biggest bruise on his cheek, flitting over the skin so lightly that he felt no pain. She flinched in empathy, "Let me know if I'm hurting you, okay?" She said, carefully dotting concealer onto one of her fingers.

"I'll probably have felt worse," Frank murmured, going very still as the cool liquid hit his cheek.

She chuckled self-consciously, biting her lip. "Yes, sorry, I know. I'm not trying to say that… but I still don't want to hurt you."

She cocked her head, smoothing the cream rhythmically into the dark bruises spilling under his eyes. Frank held himself very still, watching as the tension fell away from her shoulders, her body relaxing under the familiarity of the work. The lines of her mouth softened and her forehead creased slightly in concentration on the difficult task. Frank's breath moved slowly, easily, but his shoulders and arms grew rigid as she continued to work, and his pulse pounded hot in his neck. He had known her only days, yet in that time he had studied her independence, fierce intelligence, savage loyalty and unwavering faith. This was a woman whose worth was without measure, who had the brains and self-possession to take her fate in her hands and seek her own protection in the least likely place. Now to untremblingly gaze up at him, and with steady hands smooth out the marks his own hurricane of violence had left upon him, working without question to shield the man hunted by the world until her own end could be achieved. And yet she looked so vulnerable, curled in the passenger seat with her shoes kicked off, and he remembered how palpably breakable she had felt pinned under his body during the shooting in her apartment.

And yet, she was touching him.

He actually could not remember the last time he had been willingly touched like this in any context, gently, and with concern for his own pain. The task took time, as she steadily moved from one mark to another on his face, and his body started to relax, to trust the feel of skin on skin. He had not realized how childishly he had ached for this, how pathetically he had needed to be willingly touched. He had known this once: giggling baby kisses and playful wrestling with his wife and children, the softness, the trust. But it had been so long of people staring at him in fear and revulsion, killers hurtling their bodies and weapons against him, seeking a crack in his armor, a soft spot to maim, to torture, to kill.

Her fingers moved smoothly and gently, rubbing and massaging, working the creams and powders along his jaw and under his eyes. His breath slowed and grew ragged as he gazed at her, knowing she was too focused to notice that his eyes ran over her face with the same gentleness that her fingers moved on his. He began to feel heavy and stupid, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. The allotted ten minutes was nearly up, but nothing could have compelled him to tell her, to risk losing even a minute of the delicate brushing of her fingers on his skin. He would sit still in bliss for as long as it was allowed. He would have been startled to know that Karen had made the deliberate choice to leave the brushes and sponges used for makeup application in the bag, and was not allowing herself to question why she had chosen to use her fingers instead.

She had to twist her face around to see the last bruise along his jawline, and unconsciously drew very close as she moved to see if she had covered the whole spot. Suddenly, she felt the pressure of his gaze and her eyes raised up to his, her fingers still resting on his neck, and she flushed, pulling back quickly into her own seat. She fumbled for the little bag again, sliding the bottles and compacts back in with newly unsteady fingers. Then she looked up at him again, clearing her throat as she surveyed her work.

"How do I look?" he asked softly.

She seemed suddenly at a loss for words, and laughed nervously as she looked down again, gathering up her purse. "I don't think I've ever seen you look normal before," she stammered, without realizing the bluntness of her word choice. "I only had ten minutes, but I think I did okay. You look… you look fine."

He pulled on the hat again, and did a quick scan of the parking lot before reaching to open his door. But he took a moment to grin at her before stepping out of the car. "Good," was all he said.


End file.
